


Tuesday Nights

by firethesound



Series: Days of the Week [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Dates, First Time, M/M, Movie Night, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firethesound/pseuds/firethesound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The absolute last place Harry expected to see Malfoy was in a rundown Muggle cinema on a Tuesday night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday Nights

"But Ginny. Why?”

Harry hated the way he sounded, lost and small and sad, but he couldn’t stop himself. Ginny gave him a pitying look as she finished shrinking the last of her trunks and tucked it away in the canvas tote at her feet.

“Harry, it’s been two years—” she began, her voice soft but firm.

“I know it’s been two years! It’s been two wonderful years! Weren’t you happy with me? Don’t you love me?” He was whining now – him, Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, whining like a petulant child – and he stopped. His throat felt thick and his face felt hot.

Ginny moved close to him. “Of course I love you, but this isn’t right.”

“Of course it’s right.” He wanted to shake her, because how could this not be right? They were supposed to get married and have a family; everyone knew it. Ginny was his happily-ever-after. After everything he’d been through, didn’t he deserve this?

She sighed. “How do you feel about me?”

“I love you,” he said right away.

“Yes, I know you do. But you’re not in love with me.”

Harry blinked. “There's a difference?”

Ginny’s smile was sad. “Exactly,” she said. She stretched up on her toes to brush a chaste kiss across his cheek. “Good-bye, Harry.”

She picked up the tote and slung it over her shoulder. She paused just in front of the fireplace and glanced back at him.

“You’re still invited to lunch on Sunday, of course. You’re still part of the family. That won’t change just because we’re not together anymore,” she said, then tossed in a handful of Floo powder, shouted “The Burrow!” and was gone in a flash of green flame.

Harry stared at the fireplace for several long minutes, not wanting to believe that she’d really gone. When it remained dark and quiet and cold, he finally wrenched his eyes away and looked around the room. The bookshelves lining the walls looked odd with half of their books gone. She’d left the sofa and coffee table, but taken the rug and two of the lamps. In the dining room, the table and chairs were still there, but she’d taken all her pictures from the walls. She’d left him all of the silverware and glasses, but her favorite mug was missing from its place on the counter. In the bedroom, there was a big empty spot where the dresser had stood. She’d taken the curtains, but left the bed. Taken the duvet, but left the throw blanket Mrs. Weasley had knit.

Harry tossed his glasses onto the bedside table and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and curled up as small as he could on Ginny’s side of the bed. It smelled like her. He tucked his nose against his knees. The blanket smelled like her too. Harry didn’t cry very often, but now he sort of wished he did. He’d cried when Sirius died, of course. And after the final battle when so many of his friends lay dead around him. He remembered how good it felt after, how he felt wrung out, empty and limp.

That’d be better than this, this roiling pain and vague nausea tinged by disbelief and a little confusion. The war was over, had ended over three years ago, and Harry had survived. This was the part of his life where things were supposed to get better, weren’t they? And they had been until tonight.

He lay there until the room grew dark and eventually his insides quieted, pondering Ginny’s words. How could someone love someone but not be in love with them? Wasn’t that just the same thing? He didn’t understand.

 

****

 

Lunch on Sunday was a quiet, tense affair. The only ones behaving normally were Ginny and George. Percy periodically sent Harry disapproving looks from down the table. Ron was glowering at Ginny, while Hermione sent little pitying looks between the pair. Mr. Weasley shook his head and sighed at his plate. Mrs. Weasley bustled far too much, was far too bright and cheerful, and if she asked Harry one more time if he wanted seconds he thought he might scream.

Afterward, he cornered Ginny alone in the garden.

“Please, Ginny. Come home. I miss you.”

She sighed and turned around to face him. “What do you miss about me?”

“I miss everything. I miss making dinner with you, and lying with you in bed and talking just before we go to sleep. I miss waking up next to you and sitting on the couch with you at night. I miss coming home to you. I hate coming home to a dark, empty house.” He swallowed. “Please, I don’t know what went wrong. But if you’d just tell me, we can fix it, I know we can…”

“Harry, hush.” She waited until he quieted. “Did you listen to yourself? You don’t miss me, you miss the idea of me. You miss having _someone_ around, not me in particular.”

Harry couldn’t imagine anyone else but her. “But…”

“No, Harry. You were content with me, but you deserve more than contentment. You should be deliriously happy. You love me, but I want you to have the chance to be in love.”

“What does that even mean?” he asked, frustrated. “You keep saying that but I don’t see the difference.”

Ginny smiled at him. “You deserve the chance to find out.”

 

****

 

“Honestly, Harry! This place is a disaster!”

Hermione stood before him, feet planted a precise shoulder-width apart, her fisted hands set firmly on her hips, and a determined gleam lighting her eyes. Harry hadn’t seen her this worked up about something since they’d all sat their NEWTs. He half-expected her to come at him with color-coded study charts. He sighed and shifted slightly in his seat on the sofa.

“I suppose it is a bit messy…” he allowed.

Hermione’s eyebrows leapt nearly to her hairline. “A bit messy?” she repeated in a disbelieving screech that had Harry wincing. “Look at it!” She flung one arm out to indicate the rest of his flat.

Harry sighed again and obediently looked around. Dirty dishes sat around on every surface, most of them encrusted with half-eaten dinners. Dirty laundry sat in piles on the floor. A tower of unopened post on the table by the window threatened to topple at any moment. A fine layer of dust coated everything, and some of the dust bunnies in the corners looked ready to set up sentient colonies.

“I suppose it might be a bit messier than normal,” he allowed again. “But I don’t mind, and since no one else lives here now—“

Hermione swatted him upside the head, cutting him off mid-sentence. “It’s filthy! And yes, you live here alone, a fact that’s not likely to change if you just sit here in your pig sty all day!” She jabbed a finger at him. “Look at yourself! When was the last time you even bathed?”

Harry was mildly alarmed to realize that he couldn’t remember. The day before, or maybe the day before that? Certainly this week… He sniffed at one armpit and immediately regretted it. “Well…”

“Disgusting,” Hermione said, exasperated. “You’re going to go get in the shower. Right now.”

“But—“

“No buts! You’re going to scrub yourself down, or so help me I’ll throw you in there and do it myself!” That determined gleam still shone in her eyes, and Harry thought she might actually do it. “Then you’re going to get out of here while I clean this place up.”

“But I don’t have anywhere I need to go.”

“I don’t care where you go. You can go sit on the sidewalk for all I care! You’ve just got to get out of here. At least for a while.” Her determined expression softened into concern. “I’m worried about you, Harry. It’s been three weeks since Ginny left you and all you’ve done is sit here and mope.”

Harry’s throat closed up the minute she’d mentioned Ginny. He just nodded and stood, and managed to choke out, “Shower,” before fleeing into the bathroom.

He took his time in the shower, soaping himself twice and then standing under the hot stream of water for far longer than he needed to rinse the suds from his skin. When he shut off the water, he could hear Hermione bustling about his living room. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he slipped into his bedroom and dressed in a pair of jeans, a long sleeved tee and his warmest Weasley sweater.

As he reached for the door, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hung on the back and froze because for a moment he didn’t recognize the person in the reflection. He recognized that awful hair and those green eyes and that famous scar. But the Harry staring back at him was far too pale and as skinny as he’d been at the Dursley’s, with dark bruises under his eyes and a mouth that looked like it had never smiled.

No wonder Hermione was worried.

He found her in his kitchen, flicking her wand at a stack of dirty dishes, and went straight up to her and folded her up in a hug. Hermione’s spell broke and so did all the dishes as they fell to the floor.

“Reparo,” Harry murmured into her frizzy hair and heard all the dishes repair themselves and shuffle obediently into a neat stack on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Hermione’s arms came around his back and squeezed him tight. “I know.” She drew back and smiled up at him. “Now get out of here and let me finish.”

She watched as Harry wound an old Gryffindor scarf around his neck and shrugged into his coat and stuffed his hands into his favorite pair of mittens, a pair Mrs. Weasley had knit for him in thick navy wool decorated with little snitches embroidered in gold.

It wasn’t until he left his building and the December air attacked him with teeth that he realized he didn’t have anywhere to go. His apartment building was in a Muggle neighborhood, and he hurried down the sidewalk. Halfway down the block he remembered he’d forgotten his hat, and he scanned the shops he passed, looking for one he could kill some time in. Two blocks later, his ears had become painfully cold when he passed a run-down little cinema. A handwritten sign in the window advertised “Tuesday Night Classics – £1”

Harry tugged off one mitten and dug around in his coat pocket for coins. At the small ticket window, he paid his fare to the bored girl behind the glass who informed him he would be watching _This Sporting Life_ and the movie had begun ten minutes ago.

He slipped into the theatre as quietly as he could and took a seat near the back. The movie only held his attention for a few minutes before his gaze drifted over the handful of other people in the room. A young couple across the aisle and two rows back from Harry were ignoring the movie entirely in favor of snogging the life out of each other. There was a man three rows up from Harry who wore a beret. A pair of old ladies in the front whispered busily to each other, and halfway up the theatre on the other side of the aisle sat…

Harry’s mouth dropped open as his gaze caught on a familiar head of blond hair, and the last place he’d have expected to spot it was in a rundown Muggle cinema on a Tuesday night. The ridiculousness of it all struck Harry a second later. Of course it wasn’t Malfoy. True, no one knew where exactly he’d gotten himself off to – speculation ranged from holed up in the Manor to a chateau in France to dead – but wherever it was, it certainly wasn’t here, watching a Muggle movie in a Muggle cinema.

Harry turned his eyes back to the screen and forced himself to focus. But despite his best efforts, he found his gaze wandering back to that blond head. It certainly looked like Malfoy, but it couldn’t be. Except maybe it was? If only he’d turn around, even just a little so Harry could get a glimpse of his profile…

But he didn’t turn around, at least until the credits rolled. And then he stood and turned, and Harry would know that long nose and pointed chin anywhere. It _was_ him, and when he stepped into the aisle, Harry panicked and ducked his head down, fiddling with his shoelaces until Malfoy had gone past.

By the time Harry sat up again, Malfoy had left the room. He hopped up from his seat and tried to dart into the aisle where he nearly bowled over the two old ladies from the front row.

“Erm, sorry,” he said, stepping back and gesturing for them to go ahead.

“Thank you, dear,” one said as they continued up the aisle at a snail’s pace.

By the time Harry finally got out from behind them in the lobby and hurried to the front doors and onto the sidewalk, Malfoy had disappeared. Which was just as well because Harry didn’t know what he would have said to him anyhow.

He turned and hurried back through the cold to his flat, where he found Hermione stirring a pot of tomato sauce on the stove.

“Good, you’re just in time. Dinner’s nearly ready,” she said. “Where did you go?”

“Cinema,” Harry said. “And you’ll never guess who I saw there.” He didn’t wait for her to ask before he blurted out, “Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione’s eyebrows drew together as she tapped the spoon on the rim of the pot and set it aside. “Really? At a Muggle cinema?”

He nodded as he kicked off his shoes. “I know! That’s what I thought, too. But it was definitely him.”

They set the table and ate dinner while Hermione smiled indulgently and nodded along as Harry rambled on, speculating about Malfoy and what he was doing in Muggle London and what he’d been up to since the end of the war. He hadn’t come back with the rest of them to repeat his seventh year, and even back then no one really knew where he’d gone off to.

“I hope this isn’t the start of another Malfoy obsession,” she commented.

“What?” Harry blinked, startled out of his monologue. “I’m not obsessed with him. When have I ever been obsessed with him?”

Hermione regarded him evenly. “Sixth year?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I thought he was up to something. And he was, I might add.”

“Well I’m sure he’s not up to anything now,” she said, standing. “Can I trust you to do the washing up? Ron’s expecting me back.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said.

He’d finished cleaning up the kitchen and was changing into his pajamas when it hit him that he hadn’t thought of Ginny even once that evening.

 

****

 

Harry arrived at the cinema twenty minutes early on the following Tuesday, where the same bored girl took his coins and told him he’d be watching _Monty Python’s Life of Brian_. He hurried into the theatre and found that the same two old ladies had already taken their seats near the front. Harry picked a seat several rows behind them where he’d have a nice view of Malfoy. If he sat in the same seat he had last time. If he even showed up.

Harry cast a strong Disillusionment Charm over himself followed by a slight Repelling Charm that would ensure no one accidentally tried to sit on his lap.

Five minutes later, Malfoy walked in. He swept down the aisle and dropped into the same seat he had last time. Up close, he looked tired. As Harry watched, he sighed and tugged off the black knit cap he wore and tucked it into the pocket of his shabby grey coat, then settled back into his seat. He looked too pale and too thin, haunted and hunted, like no time at all had passed since the war.

The movie started, and although Harry had seen it before and it was one of his favorites, he found that he’d much rather watch Malfoy watching it. He had the most expressive face, reacting beautifully to everything happening on the screen, smiling and laughing along, and Harry sort of wished the movie would go on forever because seeing Malfoy with a smile on his face was like looking at an entirely different person.

But it eventually ended, and he stood and left. Harry trailed after him this time, following him through the lobby where Malfoy paused to pull on his hat again, and then went out onto the sidewalk. He cut through a small passage between two buildings and down an alleyway and past a restaurant that smelled of garlic bread and a laundromat that smelled of flowery warmth and a dumpster that smelled of rotting things, then out onto the main road and up three blocks where he turned toward a small grocer’s. He nodded to the man lingering out front, smoking a cigarette.

“You’re late,” the man muttered.

“Fuck off,” Malfoy shot back and his face folded into a familiar scowl.

That was more like the Malfoy he’d known at Hogwarts, and Harry didn’t even pause to think before he followed him inside the store.

“Hello, Draco,” an older woman called out from where she was counting money behind one of the registers.

“Good evening, Martha,” he replied with a cheerful smile that Harry was sure he’d never seen on Malfoy’s face before, and vanished through a narrow doorway.

He emerged from the back without his coat and hat, his fingers busy tying a green apron around his waist.

“Did you see the bag I set aside for you?” Martha called to him.

“I did, thanks,” he said with another smile that made him look his age. “I really appreciate it.”

Martha waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t mention it.” She went back to counting money.

Harry followed Malfoy into the back of the store where he went through another doorway into a stockroom and loaded up a small dolly with boxes. Out in the grocer’s again, he began restocking the shelves, humming an old Weird Sisters song to himself.

And that was it. Harry felt rather silly for following Malfoy to what turned out to be his job, and felt even sillier as he continued to stand there, watching as Malfoy opened box after box with a box cutter that he made appear and disappear from the apron’s front pocket like a magic trick. But Harry stayed and watched him as he stacked cans on shelf after shelf. At some point, Martha poked her head around the end of the aisle to call out that she was leaving for the night. Malfoy waved and went back to lining up boxes of oatmeal.

After Malfoy finished with the shelves, he swept and mopped the floor before he ducked back through the narrow doorway, and Harry took the opportunity to sneak out the front door. By the time Malfoy returned, wearing his coat and hat and balancing a paper bag in the crook of his arm, Harry was waiting for him on the sidewalk. He watched as Malfoy shut off the lights and locked the door, then set off down the street.

Harry felt a little guilty about continuing to follow Malfoy, especially since he was obviously going home and this seemed to be crossing the line from curious to stalkerish. Two blocks later, he was busy contemplating that line and just how far over it he was stepping when the bottom of the paper bag tore open, spilling its contents all over the sidewalk.

Malfoy growled in frustration as they scattered, and he knelt to gather them up. Three dented cans of vegetables, another can with no label, a box of crackers with one end crushed, and a carton of milk one day past its expiration date. The carton had split open on impact and half its contents spilled out. As Harry watched, Malfoy sighed, then picked it up and drank down the small amount left inside. A little bit trickled from the corner of his mouth as he tried to gulp it down faster than it could leak out of the ruined carton, and Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from how Malfoy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

When he finished, he threw the empty carton into the gutter, crammed two cans into his hat and held it like a makeshift bag, tucked the other two firmly between his forearm and chest, picked up the box of crackers, and continued on his way.

Harry stood in the middle of the sidewalk behind him and watched him go. Suddenly he had no desire to see where Malfoy lived.

 

****

 

The following Tuesday, Harry went back to the cinema and sat in the same seat near the back he’d taken on his first visit. He didn’t bother with any charms.

Malfoy spotted him as soon as he walked in, Harry could tell from the way his footsteps faltered. Then he hurried down the aisle to his seat where he sat stiffly for the duration of the film, his shoulders hunched and tense as if he expected to be attacked from behind at any moment. After the credits, he continued to sit rigidly, eyes pinned to the dark screen, until Harry stood and left.

In the lobby, Harry cast another Disillusionment Charm over himself. A few minutes later Malfoy emerged and glanced furtively around before he left the cinema. Harry followed him to the grocer’s. The lights were off this time, and Martha and the bloke with the cigarette were nowhere in sight. Malfoy unlocked the door and let himself in, turned on the lights, and set to work. Harry stood outside and watched him moving up and down the aisles for about twenty minutes, and then he started to feel pathetic so he went home.

 

****

 

The next week, Harry sat down beside Malfoy’s usual seat. He was sort of afraid that now that Malfoy had seen him, he wouldn’t come back. Harry felt a flutter of disappointment at the thought, though he had no idea why he should even care about the thought of not seeing Malfoy again, let alone feel disappointed about it. Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe he did have some sort of weird Malfoy obsession.

When Malfoy entered some minutes later, his attention was on the seat Harry had taken last week. He’d reached his row before he finally noticed Harry and froze. Their eyes met, and Harry could see the indecision. Malfoy clearly didn’t want to sit with him, but to sit elsewhere would be admitting defeat. Stiffly, he edged into the row and settled into the seat beside Harry. He removed his hat and stuffed it into his coat pocket. It left his hair staticky, and Harry found the way the fine blond strands drifted in midair strangely entrancing.

“Why are you here?” Malfoy asked without looking at Harry.

Harry shrugged. “I’ve got nowhere else to be,” he said. “Why are you here?”

Malfoy shrugged back. “To escape, for a while.”

Harry thought of Malfoy’s menial job at the grocers, his scuffed shoes and worn coat, the dented cans and the carton of milk, and didn’t ask from what. They watched the movie in silence and when it ended, Malfoy practically leapt out of his seat and fled the theatre.

Harry let him go.

He definitely didn’t think Malfoy would come back after that, and Harry found himself pleasantly surprised when Malfoy walked into the theatre the following week, and then the week after that, and the week after that. Gradually, he relaxed around Harry, his face again growing wonderfully reactive to what happened in the films he watched, and Harry found it more and more difficult to keep his eyes on the screen.

One week at the beginning of February, Malfoy’s hand accidentally brushed against his on the armrest, and his fingers were like ice.

“Sorry,” Malfoy mumbled and stuck his hands between his thighs to warm them up.

Halfway through the movie, Harry whispered that he had somewhere to be and left. Outside it had begun to snow, and Harry tucked his bare hands into his coat pockets as he turned for home.

 

****

 

“I brought your mittens,” Malfoy said on the next Tuesday. “You left them behind last week.”

“Keep them,” Harry said. “I’ve already got a new pair.” He held up his hands, encased in burgundy wool decorated with little embroidered broomsticks.

For a moment he thought Malfoy was going to argue with him, but he only nodded and said, “Okay,” with a hesitant smile.

When he brushed his fingers against Malfoy’s on the armrest, he found them warm, and Harry smiled too.

Things were easier after that. They began to talk a little bit during the credits before going their separate ways, until the cinema showed _Star Wars: A New Hope_ on the first Tuesday in March and they got so caught up in their conversation that Harry walked Malfoy to work without meaning to. Malfoy’s posture went tense as they approached the grocer’s.

“I’ve got to stop off for a few things before I head home,” he said, jerking his head at the door.

Harry hesitated, momentarily thrown by Malfoy’s lie, and the man leaning against the front of the building stubbed out his cigarette on the bricks and called out, “You’re late again! I don’t get why they haven’t fired you yet.”

Malfoy went rigid, his eyes darting to Harry.

Harry reached out and gave his hand a squeeze, broomsticks and snitches pressed together for the briefest instant. “I’ll see you next week,” he said, and turned back the way they’d come.

 

****

 

From there, they fell into a new pattern. They’d meet up on Tuesdays, watch the movie together in silence, then Harry would walk Malfoy to work as they talked about it. Somehow, their short walks on Tuesdays had become Harry’s favorite part of the week. Malfoy’s opinions still tended toward scathing and caustic, something Harry found much funnier when it wasn’t directed at himself or his friends. Sometimes Harry had to explain about Muggle things shown in the films, but less often than he would have assumed he’d have to. Malfoy seemed pretty well versed with Muggle technology, overall.

“How long have you been living like a Muggle?” he asked without really thinking.

They stood in front of the dark windows of the grocers, and Malfoy looked up from digging through his coat pockets for the key. Harry didn’t think he’d answer, and was trying to think of an apology that wouldn’t make things worse when Malfoy said, “Three years.”

“Why?” Harry asked after Malfoy had neither hit him nor hexed him.

Malfoy sighed and jammed the key into the lock. “You’d better come in. I can’t have this conversation with you if I’m freezing my bollocks off.”

Harry found himself blushing slightly at the Malfoy’s mention of his bollocks, but he thought it probably wasn’t visible with his cheeks already pink from the cold. He followed Malfoy into the store and waited while he turned on the lights. He trailed along as Malfoy went through the narrow doorway and into a small staff room. He shed his coat, tossing his hat and Harry’s blue mittens down on top of it before he took his apron down from a hook on the wall and put it on before loading up the front pockets with a roll of labels, a checklist, a pen, and his box cutter. He punched his timecard, and then a paper bag sitting on a desk caught his eye.

Harry leaned over as he rifled through it, and caught a glimpse of a dented can of diced tomatoes and a squashed loaf of bread. Malfoy made a small pleased sound as he lifted out a couple of slightly bruised apples, then glanced at Harry and flushed as he dropped the apples back on top of the bread.

“The owner lets me take home some of the stuff they can’t sell,” he said, and sighed. “I’m surprised you don’t know about any of this.”

“Why would I?” Harry asked as he and Malfoy walked back through the store to the stockroom, and he thought he did a pretty good job of hiding his sudden nervousness. Did Malfoy somehow know that Harry had followed him before?

Malfoy looked at him askance. “Why wouldn’t you?” he countered. “I’m sure the papers all leapt at the chance to gossip about how far the Malfoy scion has fallen.”

Oh, that.

“No one knows where you are,” Harry told him. “They speculate about it. The most popular theory is that you’ve holed yourself up in the Manor and become a recluse.”

Malfoy shot him a wry smile as he pushed open the door to the stockroom. “I wish I could,” he said, then the smile faded at Harry’s confused look. “You really don’t know any of this, do you?”

Harry shook his head, and Malfoy shrugged as he began loading up his dolly. He seemed to find it easier to talk if he had something else to keep occupied with so he didn’t have to look at Harry. Harry was still somewhat surprised that Malfoy was talking to him at all.

“My parents were Kissed. Surely the papers reported on that,” he said as he wrestled with a box of canned peas.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “But what’s that got to do with the Manor?”

Malfoy shoved his hair out of his face and hauled a box of tomato sauce on top of the peas. “Because the Manor was made a crime scene after the war.”

“Surely they’re not still investigating,” Harry said, surprised. He’d thought they’d finished with all that ages ago.

“They’re not,” Malfoy told him, and paused to drop another box of cans on the dolly with a grunt. “But because it was seized, it has to be signed over back to its owners before anyone’s allowed back on the property.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “But that’s you now, right?”

“Wrong,” Malfoy said bitterly. “That’s my parents. See, they’ve been Kissed but they’re not _dead_. And because they’re not dead, I haven’t inherited shit. The Manor’s listed in their name. So are all their Vaults at Gringotts.” He dropped another box of tomatoes atop his stack and gave the dolly a shove. “And that’s why I’m here. No money, no home, no wand…”

“But I sent your wand back to you,” Harry said.

Malfoy sighed and wheeled the dolly out into the store. “You sent it back to me while I was awaiting trial and somehow it ended up being filed away with my parents’ personal possessions, which all ended up dumped back at the Manor, which I don’t have access to.” His mouth twisted up in a grimace. “A clerical oversight, I was assured. Absolutely nothing to be done for it. I tried to get a new one, before I ran out of money appealing my parents’ verdict, but Ollivander Jr. refused to sell to me. Not that I blame him, of course. I probably wouldn’t sell to me, either. And after that, it just seemed easier to make a clean break from all things Wizarding.” He flicked a glance at Harry. “Until you. But you always had to be an exception.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and Malfoy sent him an exasperated look.

“Don’t be. It hasn’t been altogether bad. It’s sort of nice to talk to someone and not have to pretend that magic doesn’t exist,” he said as he arranged cans of tomato sauce.

Harry thought that was a little strange of him to say, considering all they’d talked about until tonight were the films they saw. Malfoy bent over to reach for a can that had gotten shoved to the back of the shelf, and his shirt rode up a little to reveal a small strip of his back just above the waistband of his trousers, the skin blindingly white under the fluorescent lights of the store. Harry couldn’t look away.

“Why have you been talking to me?” Malfoy asked and turned back around, the can clutched triumphantly in one hand. “What’s in it for you?”

Startled, Harry jerked his eyes up to Malfoy’s face. “I, um, I don’t really know. At first, I didn’t have anything better to do. Now, I guess I’m sort of starting to like you.”

Malfoy smirked at him and tossed the can from one hand to the other. “I am immensely likeable, Potter, it’s about time you noticed.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh please. You were an irritating wanker at school.”

One of Malfoy’s eyebrows arched into a perfect curve. “And you were an aggravating tosser,” he shot back, then smiled. “That sounds a bit like the kettle and the cauldron, doesn’t it? Well, Potter, which would you like to be? I’ve no preference, seeing as how they’re both black.”

Harry laughed, and Malfoy’s smirk softened into a smile as he went back to stacking cans.

 

****

 

Three weeks later, the frigid bite of winter had finally warmed to the chilly nip of spring. Harry had packed his mittens away for the year, and tucked his hands into his coat pockets as he and Malfoy left the theatre.

“You don’t have to walk me to work,” Malfoy said, pausing on the sidewalk. “I’ve got the night off, actually. Swapped shifts with someone this week.”

“Oh. Um, want to go get dinner then?” Harry asked.

Malfoy shook his head and grimaced. “I can’t afford it,” he admitted.

“That’s fine, I’ll pay.” Harry had only been thinking that he wanted to spend more time with Malfoy, but the instant the offer left his mouth he worried how Malfoy would take it if he thought Harry was offering him charity.

But Malfoy only arched up one eyebrow. “Are you asking me out on a date, Saint Potter?”

Harry scratched the back of his head. “Well, yeah. I guess I am.”

It took Harry’s brain a moment to process the words his stupid mouth had just come up with, and when it did he took what consolation he could in the fact that Malfoy looked every bit as gobsmacked as Harry felt.

He felt even more gobsmacked when Malfoy just nodded once and said, “Oh. Well, alright then.”

“Oh. Okay. Um,” Harry said and scuffed his shoe at the pavement. “How about that Italian place on the next block over? We always walk by the back of it when we cut through the alley and it smells amazing.”

“It smells like garlic,” Malfoy said, and shrugged. “But I like garlic. That’s fine.”

They started down the street, passing by the alleyway and turning down the next block. For the first time in months, Harry had no idea what to say to Malfoy. But they were on a date now, so shouldn’t he say something?

“So, um, you like blokes?” he asked as they walked.

Malfoy broke out in a startled laugh. “Isn’t that something you should have worked out before asking me on a date?”

There was a gently mocking tone to Malfoy’s voice, and it took Harry a moment to figure out that he was teasing. Harry gave him a sheepish grin. “Yeah, probably.”

Malfoy snickered. “Yes, Potter, I like blokes. How about you?”

“No,” Harry said, and Malfoy tensed beside him. He rushed on. “Not in general, anyway. I just like you in particular.” Malfoy was watching him warily and Harry let his mouth tick up in a crooked smile. “You always had to be an exception.”

After a moment, Malfoy smiled too. “Hm. Well, naturally.” He sounded pleased.

They walked the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence, but this time the silence felt right so Harry let it be. They came to a stop in front of a small restaurant, the bricks painted in broad stripes of faded green, white, and red paint.

“I reckon this is it,” he said.

Malfoy pulled the door open and sniffed theatrically as he stepped inside. “Smells like it,” he said.

The hostess greeted them and sat them at a small table near the back. Harry fumbled with his coat and when he sat, his foot bumped against Malfoy’s under the table. Malfoy only pressed his shoe more firmly against Harry’s, and Harry absolutely didn’t know what to do with that.

“What’s a good wine?” Harry asked, studying the wine list. It felt a bit like it had when he’d opened his Potions textbook for the first time, full of strange words he didn’t know the meaning of.

Malfoy plucked the list from his hand and studied it briefly. “These are all shit,” he announced, not bothering to keep his voice down in the slightest. The waiter shot him a dirty look. Malfoy ignored him. “But I suppose the Merlot is the least offensive of the bunch, if you insist on getting something.”

“Um, a bottle of Merlot, please,” Harry said to the waiter with an apologetic smile. “And a glass of water for me as well, thanks.”

Malfoy studied his menu like there’d be an exam on it until the waiter brought over their bottle of wine and two glasses. He uncorked it for them and poured them each a glass. Malfoy set his menu aside and took a sip.

“Palatable,” he pronounced. “Barely.”

Harry tried his own. It tasted like red wine. “I think it’s nice,” he said.

Malfoy muttered something that contained the phrases “dreadful lack of taste” and “utterly uncultured” and Harry and the waiter both pretended they hadn’t heard.

“Are you ready to order or would you like a few minutes,” the waiter prompted without looking at Malfoy, and Harry made a mental note to leave him a tip for putting up with them. He was sure Malfoy had manners somewhere, but he certainly wasn’t using them tonight.

Harry ordered the spaghetti and sausage while Malfoy ordered the chicken parmigiana.

“Shouldn’t you be drinking a white wine with your chicken?” Harry asked after the waiter left.

Malfoy looked scandalized. “Absolutely not,” he said, and went off on a long-winded tangent about tomato sauce and tannins and blackcurrants and grapes and earthy tones and the heaviness of any given dish, during which he polished off his ‘barely palatable’ wine and poured himself a second glass. Harry just propped up his chin on one hand and watched him go.

“That’s another thing,” Malfoy said and paused for another sip of wine. “If you’re going to date me, we’re absolutely going to have to educate you about things like this. It’s non-negotiable, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Harry said, and took another sip from his own glass. Despite Malfoy’s talk of blackcurrants and cherries and faint floral notes, it still just tasted like red wine. “I guess that’s okay. I mean, as long as you’re doing the educating.”

In truth, he hadn’t really thought about anything past tonight. He hadn’t even meant to ask Malfoy out, after all. But now that he was here and Malfoy was talking about more dates, Harry realized he rather liked the idea of it. He smiled, and something deep in his chest gave a strange flutter when Malfoy smiled back.

The waiter brought over their plates, and Malfoy tucked into his chicken like he hadn’t had a proper meal in years. Maybe he hadn’t, Harry thought, and remembered the carton of milk and how Malfoy had drunk it down then and there rather than let it go to waste. He really was entirely too thin.

They didn’t talk as Malfoy cleared his plate and drained most of the bottle. Harry made it through about two-thirds of his own dish. He noticed Malfoy eyeing it.

“Would you like to try some?” he asked, nudging his plate a little closer to Malfoy.

“I…” Malfoy said, and Harry could see the indecision.

“It’s really good, but I had a big lunch today. Here, try some,” Harry urged, and scooted the plate a little closer.

Malfoy pushed his own empty plate aside and dragged Harry’s over, digging into it with the same enthusiasm he’d started his own with. Harry topped off Malfoy’s glass of wine before tipping the last dribbles of Merlot into his own glass. He set the empty bottle aside.

Malfoy finished quickly and dabbed tomato sauce from his lips with his napkin, leaving an orange kiss on the white cloth, while Harry went up to the register and paid their bill, adding on a little extra to compensate for Malfoy being Malfoy. He returned to the table and put on his coat. Malfoy wobbled a bit when he stood up, and Harry caught him by the elbow.

“Thanks,” he said with an embarrassed laugh. “I haven’t had wine in ages and it’s rather gone to my head, I’m afraid.”

“It’s fine, really,” Harry said. He felt a little tipsy himself, but didn’t think it was from the wine.

They walked outside and hesitated outside the restaurant.

“Well,” Malfoy said at the same time Harry blurted out, “Let me walk you home.”

“You really don’t have to,” Malfoy said.

“Oh, but I do,” Harry told him. “I asked you out, didn’t I? That means it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, seeing you home safely.” He bowed and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Malfoy gave an inelegant snort of laughter. “You are utterly, hopelessly ridiculous, Potter,” he said, but he tucked his arm through Harry’s.

Harry enjoyed the walk to Malfoy’s place at first. The air was just chilly enough to make him appreciate the warmth of Malfoy’s arm through his, and Malfoy’s cheeks were flushed pink and his eyes sparkled. But after a few blocks, Harry began to worry what Malfoy might expect from him when they arrived.

Then Malfoy guided him to a stop outside a tall brick building and Harry really panicked. What should he do? Just say goodnight? Give him a hug? Try to kiss him? Shake his hand?

Malfoy shuffled a bit closer and tilted his head a little as his eyes darted between Harry’s eyes and his mouth.

Oh. Well. Okay, then.

Harry leaned a little closer and tipped his head just a bit to the side. He couldn’t look away from Malfoy’s mouth, and then Malfoy moved closer and their lips met in a gentle kiss. Harry marveled for a moment about how different it felt from other kisses he’d had, how much easier it was to kiss someone his own height, how it felt to lean against a body as hard and flat as his own. When Harry slid his arms around Malfoy and pulled him close, Malfoy made a soft noise in the back of his throat and opened his mouth.

He froze for a moment when Malfoy’s tongue licked against his own, but then all of his nerves vanished because Malfoy tasted like Merlot and tomato and spicy sausage, and snogging him didn’t really feel that much different from snogging Ginny, when he got down to it. Malfoy’s hands slid up Harry’s back and one curled possessively around the nape of his neck while the other knotted in his hair. Harry groaned and pushed his tongue into Malfoy’s mouth.

They snogged for what felt like ages, until Harry’s lower lip was slick with spit and he couldn’t quite catch his breath. “Can I come up?” He asked when they separated. He didn’t know what he wanted, only that he wanted more.

“Well, I don’t know,” Malfoy said and tipped his head coyly to one side. “I don’t want you to think I’m easy.”

Harry snorted and wiped at his chin with the back of his wrist. “Trust me, Malfoy, I’ll never think anything about you is easy.”

“As long as we’re clear on that,” Malfoy said.

It wasn’t a yes or a no, so Harry leaned in and brushed his lips against Malfoy’s. “Please,” he said. “Let me come up.”

Malfoy took a step away from him and hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

He turned and dug in his pocket for his key, and Harry grabbed for his other hand and held on tight, either to keep Malfoy from changing his mind or himself from losing his nerve. Malfoy’s fingers tightened around his, and the smile he flicked at Harry was endearingly shy.

Malfoy got the door open and held it for Harry as he ducked inside. He didn’t let go of Harry’s hand as he led him to a stairwell and started up it. They’d made it up to the second level when the shivery nervous excitement in the pit of Harry’s stomach grew too much to bear and he crowded Malfoy up against the wall and kissed him again.

He was standing one step above Malfoy and had to bend down to reach his mouth, and that made it feel more like the kisses he’d had with girls, but still so much better. Malfoy used his teeth as much as his tongue, and it was awkward and sloppy and every bit as brilliant as their first one had been. Footsteps echoed up the stairs from below them, and even so Harry couldn’t stop. He just pushed Malfoy tighter against the wall and kept right on kissing him.

“Fuckin’ queers,” a man muttered as he pushed past them and continued up.

“Piss off!” Malfoy called after him, and he sounded more cheerful than angry. Gently, he disentangled himself from Harry. “He’s just jealous,” he murmured. “We’re about to get shagged and he isn’t.”

Was that what Malfoy wanted to do? Harry couldn’t think as Malfoy took him by the hand again and led him up two more floors and down the hall. He came to a stop outside a door with the number 403 painted on it in flaking gold paint. Malfoy seemed suddenly nervous and it took him two tries to slot his key into the lock. He jiggled it a bit as he turned it, and the lock clicked open.

“Sorry it’s not much,” he said as he led the way inside and flipped the light switch.

His flat was both not much and too much all at once. It was just one room, with two narrow doorways on the opposite wall – one leading to a bathroom and one leading to a closet, and Harry would have rather flipped a coin than guess which was bigger – and a small kitchenette tucked into an alcove between them. And every inch of available space was crammed with furniture. They were clearly a set, the gleaming mahogany finish making the peeling paint of the walls look even shabbier. Several plush rugs layered the floor, overlapping haphazardly and covering nearly every inch of the faded linoleum flooring.

A monstrous four-poster bed dominated the room with an enormous wardrobe sitting just opposite with so little space between the two that Malfoy must have to sit on the foot of the bed to get the drawers open. A large roll top desk and leather chair sat to the right of the bed beside a bookshelf crammed with ratty paperbacks. A sitting set – a sofa, two chairs and a low table – were huddled around the kitchenette. Four chests sat stacked in a tower beside the bed.

“How did you get all of this in here?” Harry asked as he looked around. Most of these things didn’t look like they would even fit through the door, never mind up that narrow staircase.

“I Shrank it all before the last battle,” Malfoy said softly. “I thought if I could find a chance to run away, at least I’d have something to start over with. I got Longbottom to Unshrink it for me.”

“Neville?”

Malfoy nodded. “I saved his life that night. He owed me a Life Debt.”

And all Malfoy had asked for was to have his furniture Unshrunk. Harry felt his heart turn over.

“Well,” Malfoy said in a voice so bright it sounded brittle. “I’ll just make us some tea, then, shall I?”

“That sounds nice,” Harry said.

He watched as Malfoy turned away and squeezed between his wardrobe and the sofa to get to the stove and set the kettle to heating. There was tension between them now, and Harry had no idea how to get rid of it and get back to snogging. He stood awkwardly as Malfoy prepared a tray, filling a little bowl with sugar and a tiny jug with cream. He arranged four biscuits on a plate and measured scoops of black tea and started it brewing.

When he finished and picked up the tray, Harry started for the sofa.

“No,” Malfoy said. “That thing’s horribly uncomfortable. I don’t know why I even brought it. We can sit on the bed.”

He edged around the furniture and set the tea tray on his bedside table before hopping up onto the mattress. Harry clambered up beside him and took the teacup Malfoy offered him. It was the finest china Harry had ever held, eggshell thin and painted with tiny blue flowers. Harry was a little afraid that he might shatter it if he held on too tight.

“Sugar? Cream?” Malfoy asked politely.

“No, thank you,” Harry said, and watched as Malfoy added both to his own cup.

It was awkward at first, this strange tea party in Malfoy’s bed, but the warmth of the cup in his hands and the pungent steam rising from the Earl Grey settled Harry, calming his nerves. This was just tea. This was just Malfoy.

“So,” Malfoy said after taking a long, slow sip from his cup.

“I’ve never been with a man before,” Harry told him, because they might as well get it out in the open.

Malfoy glanced at him, surprised. “Oh. We don’t have to do this now, you know. We can wait, or just snog for a bit, or…”

“I don’t want to wait,” Harry said. “I just… thought you should know that I’ve got no idea what I’m doing.” He took a large gulp of tea and closed his eyes for a moment as it warmed a path down to his belly. He looked over at Malfoy. “Have you done this before?”

Malfoy nodded. “A few times,” he said.

Harry gave a nervous laugh. “Well thank god one of us knows how this works.”

“You have had sex before, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but just with girls,” Harry said. Well, one girl, at least, but he didn’t really think that was relevant.

“Right. I’ll bottom, then,” Malfoy said and set his cup aside. At Harry’s blank look, he clarified. “I’ll let you do the shagging. I think it’s not quite as intimidating, that way.”

“Are you sure?” Harry said, though he felt much less apprehensive to know that he’d be sticking his cock in Malfoy rather than the other way round.

“Absolutely,” Malfoy said. He took Harry’s cup and set it with his own. He slid his hand up Harry’s leg, and his fingertips were hot from holding his teacup. “That’s not to say I won’t want a go at you, eventually.” He leaned in and nipped at Harry’s bottom lip. “But right now I rather like the idea of having your cock inside me.”

The casual way Malfoy said it, like having someone’s cock in him was no big deal, lit the desire that’d been building in Harry’s gut into something sharp that licked through his veins. Harry groaned and caught Malfoy’s mouth in a kiss, sliding his tongue along Malfoy’s. He let Malfoy press him down to the mattress and straddle his hips. Malfoy’s mouth was hot and slick on his, his lips soft and pliant. He let Harry set the pace of their kiss, content to go as fast or as slow as Harry wanted.

The room felt too hot, and Harry realized that they were still wearing their coats. He tugged at Malfoy’s. “Too many clothes,” he said.

They sat up and pulled off their coats, and Harry hesitated, unsure if he should keep undressing or if he should let Malfoy do it. But then Malfoy pulled off his sweater, so Harry did the same. The wool dragging over his head left Malfoy’s hair adorably ruffled, and Harry couldn’t help but cup his cheek in one palm and press a gentle kiss to his lips before he pulled back enough to grab the hem of Malfoy’s shirt and pull it up.

Harry felt a split second of fear as he pulled the shirt off Malfoy, overwhelmed by the memory of the hiss of water from pipes and Myrtle’s screaming and the bright smell of blood as Malfoy wheezed and bled onto the tile floor, but his chest was smooth and unmarked. Harry felt a bit silly almost immediately, because his curse had caught Malfoy’s neck and face too, and those weren’t scarred. He leaned in and kissed Malfoy’s neck, and Malfoy let his head drop back. Someday, they’d talk about it. They’d sit down and dredge up all the old painful memories and get all of their ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’s out of the way. But for now, Harry though they both needed this, whatever this was, more.

He let Malfoy strip off his shirt, and Harry sucked in a breath when Malfoy tossed it aside and reached for Harry’s belt. Malfoy’s hands stilled until Harry nodded and reached for Malfoy’s trousers.

With both of them naked, Harry felt shy and exposed in a way he hadn’t felt since his first time with Ginny. Malfoy didn’t seem self-conscious at all, leaning back a little on his hands with his legs parted to show off his… Harry blushed a little and looked away. After years of studiously avoiding letting his eyes rest on other men’s cocks in changing rooms and toilets, it seemed rude to stare.

Malfoy didn’t have any problem with staring. He let his gaze sweep hungrily over Harry’s body before settling at his groin. Well, if he was staring… Harry let his eyes slide back to Malfoy’s prick, heard Malfoy give a soft huff of amusement and he shifted his hips a little beneath Harry’s gaze. His cock was half-hard and curved just a little toward one lean thigh, and his hair there was gold rather than platinum, densely curled around the base of his cock and sprinkled more sparsely over his bollocks, and those looked so soft and pink that Harry wanted to cup them in his palm.

As if he read his mind, Malfoy spread his legs a little more and said, “You can touch me, you know. It’s alright.” And before Harry could reply, Malfoy leaned in and kissed him.

And then there was more snogging and with his eyes shut tight and his mouth attached to Malfoy’s, it seemed easier to let his hands wander. Malfoy’s bollocks were every bit as soft as they looked, Harry discovered, and hot where they sat heavily in his hand. Malfoy made the most captivating little whimper when Harry kneaded them gently, so he did it again, and then Malfoy put his hand around Harry’s cock and stroked, and Harry nearly forgot to breathe.

“How do you want me?” Malfoy asked.

It hit Harry that, as brilliant as this felt, it was only the beginning. His brain seized at the thought of being inside Malfoy, Malfoy whom he’d hated and hexed for years, and somehow that made Harry want him all the more. It made no sense.

“Want you,” he managed.

Malfoy leaned close to whisper in his ear. “You can have me on my back, if you want. I’ll wrap my legs around you and we can snog, and you can watch my face when I come.” He paused and his tongue flicked out to lick Harry’s earlobe. Harry shivered. “Or you can take me from behind, on my hands and knees. That way you can watch yourself fucking me.”

Harry got a flash of himself doing just that, Malfoy’s arsehole stretched pink and shiny around his cock. “Yes,” he gasped as Malfoy bit at his neck. “That. I want that.”

It got a little awkward when Malfoy had Harry put his fingers up his bum, because once they were there Harry wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. He slid them out and poked them back in again, and Malfoy made noises like he enjoyed it so Harry kissed him again and kept poking. Then Malfoy rolled over, dislodging Harry’s fingers, and propped himself up on his hands and knees.

“Well, Potter? Get on with it.”

That was the best invitation Harry was likely to get, so he slicked his cock from the little tube Malfoy passed to him and got up on his knees behind him. When he pressed the head of his cock against that little pink pucker, it seemed like it’d never fit, even though Harry had just had three of his fingers in there. But Malfoy pushed back against him and the tip slid in.

“Oh. Oh god,” Harry gasped, his hands curling around Malfoy’s hipbones. He pressed forward another inch or so.

Malfoy’s body shook as he laughed softly. “Brilliant, isn’t it? Just wait til you try it from this end.”

Harry couldn’t even think about that right now. He pressed forward slowly until he was all the way in, and then he had to stop and let his brain catch up. This was so completely different than sex with a girl. Malfoy was so much tighter, his body so hot around Harry, but not nearly as wet which made the friction as Harry moved almost unbearable. Carefully, he slid out and back in, and Malfoy gave a low moan and rolled his hips. Harry gripped them tighter and started a gentle, rocking rhythm.

After a couple minutes of thrusting, Malfoy twisted to look over his shoulder. “You can do it harder.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Harry said, and he sounded breathless even to his own ears.

“Really, I can take it. Do it harder.”

Harry curled his fingers tighter around Malfoy’s hips and thrust harder.

“Come on, Potter,” Malfoy said in the same sneering, condescending tone Harry remembered from Hogwarts. “Don’t tell me that’s the best you can do.”

It got to him as easily now as it did then. “You’re such an arsehole,” Harry panted and snapped his hips forward so hard that Malfoy nearly pitched over onto his face.

“Fuck yes, oh, yes, just like that!” Malfoy cried and shoved his arse back at Harry.

They fell into a frantic, bruising rhythm. Malfoy was pulling desperately at his cock, and Harry couldn’t hold back. He came so hard he couldn’t breathe, shuddering through his orgasm. Malfoy was still jerking at himself, so Harry knocked his hand away and took over, wanking him while still fucking Malfoy as best he could with his softening prick. Malfoy came with a cry that sounded pained, bucking into Harry’s hand, and his arse clenched so hard around Harry’s cock that he vowed to himself that next time Malfoy was going to come first because _that_ would definitely send him over the edge.

Malfoy collapsed face down on his bed, and Harry flopped onto his side next to him and waited for his heartbeat to go back to normal. After a minute or so, Malfoy slid off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. Harry could hear water running, then the water shut off and Malfoy came back and handed Harry a damp cloth. He waited patiently while Harry cleaned himself up then took the cloth back and tossed it toward the kitchenette. It landed in the sink with a splat, and Harry chuckled.

“Maybe you should have played Chaser.”

Malfoy smirked at him over his shoulder as he went back to the entryway. “Probably would have if you hadn’t been Seeker,” he said, and paused with his hand at the light switch. “Are you staying the night?”

Harry sat up. “I’d like to. Are you okay with that?”

The smile Malfoy sent him gave Harry his answer. Malfoy turned off the lights, and Harry got himself under the covers. Malfoy slid in beside him, scooted closer, and kissed his eye.

“Sorry,” he said, and tried again, and this kiss landed on Harry’s upper lip.

“I take it back, your aim is terrible,” Harry said, and tried to kiss Malfoy. His lips landed somewhere on Malfoy’s cheek.

Malfoy snickered. “So’s yours.” He settled his head against Harry’s shoulder. “Night, Potter.”

Harry groped for and found Malfoy’s hand, and linked their fingers together. “Good night.”

 

****

 

A high, shrill jangling jerked Harry awake, and for a moment he floundered, fumbling with the blankets and staring around at the unfamiliar room. Beside him, Malfoy grunted and rolled over and swatted at the alarm clock. He missed, and it fell off the bedside table and onto the floor, still ringing. Muttering to himself, he leaned over the bed to fish for it, his bare bum wagging in the air for a moment before he overbalanced and slid onto the carpet with a muffled thump.

“Fuck,” Malfoy mumbled from somewhere down below and managed to shut off the alarm.

Harry couldn’t help it; he dissolved into a fit of laughter. This absolutely wasn’t what he thought waking up with Malfoy would be like.

Malfoy poked his head over the mattress and blinked sleepily. His hair was mussed and he reminded Harry ridiculously of a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. “You laughing at me, Potter?”

Harry crawled over to the other side of the bed and leaned down for a kiss. “Absolutely.”

Malfoy smiled and then yawned so wide that Harry could see his molars. “Alright, just so we’re clear.” He stumbled to his feet and stretched his lithe body, entirely unconcerned with his nudity. “I’m for a shower, I think,” he said and began to wend his way around his furniture to get to the bathroom. “You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like,” he called without turning around.

Harry liked Malfoy naked, and but thought that Malfoy naked and wet might be even better. He had every intention of finding out.

The rustle of sheets as Harry slid out of bed had Malfoy turning around. “Do us a favor and bring the lube?” he said with a slow, smug smile.

He disappeared into the bathroom and a moment later, the pipes rattled and water spurted for a few seconds before settling into a steady hiss. Harry hurried across the room, the tube clutched tightly in his fist, and banged his shin on the edge of the coffee table as he passed it.

Just inside the doorway to the bathroom he came to a halt. It smelled of mildew, and the silver of the showerhead was almost entirely caked in limescale, the dingy white tiles of the walls held together by greying grout. The caulking of the shower stall was speckled black with mold, and Harry had the urge to go put his shoes on before he stepped foot in there. But then he saw Malfoy, his pale skin beaded with water, and forgot about everything except getting inside him again as soon as he could.

Though the knob was twisted all the way to hot, the spray of water was tepid at best, and Harry shivered as he fucked Malfoy. The chill of the water offset the heat of Malfoy’s body, and the distraction it provided let Harry last far longer than he thought he would, watching with rapt fascination at the way his cock appeared and disappeared between the pale curves of Malfoy’s arsecheeks, how Malfoy panted and wailed and the way his nails skidded as he clawed at the slick tile wall.

Malfoy came first this time, and just as Harry thought, those inner muscles spasming around his prick pushed him over the edge. They washed up quickly and Harry turned off the water. Malfoy reached for a towel and offered it to him.

“I’ve only got the one, but you can use it first,” he said. His skin had broken out in goose pimples and his nipples had hardened into stiff pink nubs. Harry wanted to bite them.

“Keep it,” Harry said.

He went out into main room to fetch his wand from his trousers, and cast warming and drying charms over his skin and hair before he went back to the bathroom and cast the same over Malfoy, who instantly relaxed with a soft sigh. When he finished, he turned to the rest of the bathroom and blasted the tile walls and shower with scouring charms until they gleamed. He turned uncertainly to Malfoy, who only shrugged and said, “Would you mind hitting the stovetop, too?”

Harry stepped back into the rest of the flat and did just that, then cast laundering charms on his clothes before he put them back on. Malfoy rummaged through the closet and came up with a clean pair of trousers and a fresh shirt.

“You never told me why you’re up so early,” Harry said as Malfoy reached for his coat.

Malfoy paused, one arm partway through the sleeve. “I have to go to work.”

Harry frowned. “But I thought you worked at night.”

“At the grocer’s,” Malfoy said and finished dragging on his coat. “I have to go to my other job.”

Harry put his coat on and followed Malfoy to the door. “Can I walk with you?”

“I don’t suppose I could stop you.”

The morning outside had dawned grey and drizzly, and Harry cast an Impervius Charm on both of their coats. They walked two blocks until Malfoy came to a stop outside a small diner.

“Well, this is it. I’ll see you soon?” Malfoy said, then stopped Harry as he made to enter. “What are you doing?”

“Um, going in?” Harry glanced at Malfoy, surprised. “They have breakfast, so I might as well.”

Malfoy sighed and flicked a glance through the plate glass window. “I’d rather you didn’t. It’s… not glamorous. I only took it because they pay in cash and I don’t have a Muggle ID.” He looked away. “I wash dishes.”

“Tell you what,” Harry said impulsively. “You let me stay and wait for you, and I’ll tell you about my shitty childhood. Deal?” He stuck out his hand.

Malfoy studied him for a moment, then gave his fingers a brief squeeze. “Deal,” he said, then sniffed loudly and added in a voice much more Malfoy-like, “But don’t blame me if your brains turn to soup out of sheer boredom. I work an eight hour shift. And speaking of soup, don’t order that. It’s bloody awful.”

He yanked the door open and hurried inside, leaving Harry to trail after him.

 

****

 

The bloke replacing Malfoy was running late, so Malfoy didn’t get to leave until half three. Harry had eaten some rubbery eggs and greasy bacon and drank cup after cup of weak tea, then spent the rest of the day reading a newspaper someone had left at the next table over. At first, his waitress had given him pointed looks when he showed no signs of either leaving or ordering more food, but after he slipped her a few bills she was all smiles.

From his table in the corner, Harry could catch glimpses of Malfoy whenever someone went through the door to the kitchen. He stood hunched over a low stainless steel sink, a black apron cinched tight around his waist and a pair of bright green rubber gloves flopping around his forearms. The top of his Mark peeked out from the cuff of the left one.

Harry was just contemplating ordering some soup despite Malfoy’s warning when Malfoy finished.

“Ready?” Malfoy said brightly as he approached Harry’s table. His cheeks were pink and his hair was just the slightest bit frizzy from standing over a sink of steaming water all day.

Harry set aside the crossword puzzle he’d been staring at for over an hour. “More than ready.”

“It’s Wednesday,” Malfoy said as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. The rain had cleared up but the sky was still overcast. “I always walk in the park on Wednesdays. Do you mind?”

Harry shook his head and let Malfoy lead him to a nearby park. It was small, with some rusty playground equipment tucked away in one corner, but Malfoy seemed happy enough as they strolled along the muddy paths.

“So, about your shitty childhood…”

“No,” Harry said more sharply than he intended. “Sorry. It’s not a conversation I want to have in public. Come back to mine after? I’ll cook for you.”

“If you insist,” Malfoy said. “Look, Potter. When you said you had a shitty childhood, I assumed you meant… Well, if it’s really as bad as all that, I don’t want you to feel obligated to tell me.”

“It’s important for you to know,” Harry said, and caught Malfoy’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

Malfoy sent him a small smile and a second later, he squeezed back.

 

****

 

Back at Harry’s flat, they hung up their coats and Harry dragged a chair from the dining room into the kitchen and gestured for Malfoy to sit. He did, and Harry bustled around, getting out a pan and plates and eggs and bacon and bread, and turned to the task of making breakfast even though it was dinnertime. Ever since those awful eggs this morning, he’d had a craving for properly cooked ones.

Malfoy didn’t say anything as Harry fried bacon, and Harry didn’t say anything either. He tried to find the words for what had happened to him as a child but he had no idea how to begin. When the bacon was done, he scrambled some eggs with milk and shredded cheese and poured it into the pan. He picked up a slice of bacon and bit off half of it, sighing contentedly as it crunched between his teeth.

He held out the other half to Malfoy. “Here, open,” he said.

Malfoy opened his mouth and Harry fed him the bacon. He chewed and his eyebrows came up. “Not bad, Potter,” he said. “I’d say that’s the best I’ve had since Hogwarts.”

Harry grinned at him and scraped a spatula through the pan of eggs. They were just barely beginning to set. “I’m good at making breakfast.”

“Oh?” Malfoy teased. “Is that in your blood too, like Quidditch?”

“No, I’ve just been doing it a long time.” And that seemed as good a segue as any, so Harry continued. “When I was little, my aunt and uncle made me cook for them. Since breakfast was easiest, they started me on that first. I think I was five when I first started.”

Malfoy’s brows drew together. “Five? But weren’t you too little to manage?”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah.”

“But… why did they make you do it?”

“Because they didn’t care.”

“But if you…” Malfoy began, and Harry cut him off.

“Here,” Harry said, and tugged off his sock. He propped up his heel on Malfoy’s chair, and the arch of his foot fit the curve of Malfoy’s thigh perfectly. “This is the sort of people they were.”

“What happened?” Malfoy said, leaning down a little to inspect the puckered burn scar over Harry’s instep.

“I spilled a pan of hot oil and some splashed me,” Harry told him. “I was six.” He took his foot off Malfoy and pulled his sock back on. He turned his wrist over to show the faintly raised burn mark over his pulse. “Brushed against the oven rack trying to get the roast out. I was nine.” He stuck out his left index finger with the white scar that arced over the top, just below his fingernail. “Chopping carrots. I was seven, I think. I nearly cut my finger off. They had to take me to the hospital for that one. Bled like fuck.” He shrugged. “I’ve got more.”

Harry turned back to the pan and scraped the spatula through it, and felt a small pang of relief. If he’d left the pan unattended just another minute, the eggs would have started to brown. He could feel Malfoy staring at his back.

“They hated me,” he said eventually. The eggs finished and he scooped most of them onto a plate, arranged bacon and buttered toast beside it, and passed the plate to Malfoy. Harry put the rest of the eggs and bacon and toast on another plate but didn’t eat; he suddenly didn’t feel hungry.

Instead, he turned to the sink and began washing the dishes by hand, and the rest of it came tumbling out of him. It was easy to say when he didn’t have to look at Malfoy’s face. The gentle clunk of the dishes in the sink and the soothing warmth of the water over his hands made it easier as well. Harry had always loved to wash dishes, even back at the Dursleys. After dinner, they’d leave him all alone in the kitchen to clean up, and it was one of the most peaceful parts of his day. No one to yell at him or make him feel bad about himself. Just him and the dishes and a sink full of warm, soapy water.

He told Malfoy all of it. About the cupboard and the old clothes, the yardwork and housework and cooking. How Aunt Petunia would look at him like he was something disgusting she’d tracked into the house on the bottom of her shoe. How Uncle Vernon’s face would go purple when he called Harry a worthless freak. How for ten years of his life, he had no one who even cared about him, never mind loved him.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said, and Harry heard it in his voice.

He sighed and turned around, wiping his damp hands on the hem of his shirt. “I didn’t tell you this because I wanted your pity, Malfoy. I told you because I want you to see that everyone’s life is shit at some point. That was mine. This is yours.”

Malfoy blinked at him. “You don’t pity me?”

“Fuck no,” Harry said. “And that’s exactly my point.” He took Malfoy’s empty dish and replaced it with the full one. Malfoy forked another bite of eggs into his mouth and Harry turned back to the sink to wash the plate. “Look at you. You knew nothing at all about Muggles, you were pitched into it headfirst, and you’ve survived. I think that’s pretty amazing.”

“It’s not that great,” Malfoy scoffed around a mouthful. He swallowed. “I’m working two miserable jobs, I live in a shabby one room flat…”

“It is great,” Harry insisted. He set the plate to dry and turned around. “It is, and I know because I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to be tossed into the deep end with no warning. When I turned eleven, Hagrid showed up out of nowhere. Happy birthday, Harry, you’re a wizard! And by the way, your parents weren’t killed in a car crash, they were actually murdered by a madman who’s likely to turn up again at some point and try to finish you off too.”

“That’s different,” Malfoy said.

“Not really. At Hogwarts, I knew nothing about magic or Wizarding society and its rules. I felt like I didn’t belong and it was bloody hard. And I had all the help I could ask for. Malfoy, you’ve had no one. You did this alone, and you’ve made it work, and I respect the hell out of that.”

Malfoy sat up just a little straighter. “It really has been hard,” he admitted, and Harry could hear the faintest touch of pride coloring his words.

Harry smiled. At school, Malfoy had always liked when his accomplishments got him attention. It was nice to see that he hadn’t completely changed. He’d just grown up.

“What’re you smiling at?”

“You,” Harry said. “It’s all a bit surreal, isn’t it? You’re sitting here in my kitchen, and I’ve just cooked you dinner and told you my deepest secrets.”

Malfoy munched on the last slice of bacon and sucked the grease from his thumb before he set his plate aside. “That’s what you think is surreal? How about how you fucked me once last night and again this morning?” He smirked and his chin came up just enough to give him that haughty, snobbish look that always made Harry want to punch him in school. Now it made Harry want to do entirely different things to him. “Or how about how you’re going to take me to bed right now and do it again.”

“I am, am I?” Harry said. They both wanted it, but he still couldn’t resist challenging Malfoy.

“You absolutely are,” Malfoy said, standing slowly and advancing on Harry.

Malfoy was wrong, as it turned out.

They never made it to the bed.

 

****

 

As spring warmed into summer, Harry fell into an easy routine with Malfoy. Monday nights, Harry took him out to dinner. On Wednesdays, weather permitting, they walked in the park. Saturday afternoons always included a trip for ice cream. Thursdays, Malfoy’s only day off, they spent in bed. And on Tuesdays, they always met up at the cinema.

On the second Tuesday in June, Harry arrived late.

“Sorry,” he whispered to Malfoy. “Had some business to take care of at Gringotts and got held up. What’ve I missed?”

He didn’t really pay attention as Malfoy explained who was who, and Harry spent the rest of the movie with one hand tucked in his pocket, clutched tightly around the small pieces of metal there, and worried about how to find the perfect words to say what he wanted to say.

Later that night, after the movie and after he’d kissed Malfoy goodnight outside the grocer’s and after several hours of pacing the sidewalk while Malfoy finished stacking cans and boxes and sweeping and mopping, Harry still hadn’t found the right words.

Malfoy looked at him in surprise when he finished locking up the grocer’s and turned to find Harry waiting for him outside.

“Here,” Harry said and pressed two keys into his hand.

Malfoy looked at then dumbly before he touched the Gringotts key with hesitant fingers. “What is…?”

Harry sucked in a deep breath, suddenly nervous. He’d been wanting to do this for weeks, but a small part of him was still afraid that Malfoy was only with him because he had no one else. And that was exactly why Harry had to do this. Giving him this was as much for Harry’s peace of mind as it was to help Malfoy.

“Sirius Black was my godfather, and he left me everything when he died,” Harry said. “It wasn’t exactly legal – he’d been disowned ages ago so none of it was really his to give – but no one’s ever tried to take it away from me. Really, it should have gone to your mum and her sisters.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “But Bellatrix is dead and Andromeda doesn’t need it and your mum’s… Well, I just think it should be yours.”

Malfoy’s hand curled into a fist around the keys. “I feel like I ought to protest.”

“Don’t,” Harry said. “It’s Black property, and you’re a Black. Sort of. Well, half a Black, but then I guess anyone’s only ever half of anything. My point is, it’s rightfully yours.”

He nodded and looked up at Harry with startling tenderness in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Harry smiled. “Don’t thank me until you’ve seen Grimmauld Place. It’s a doxy-infested shithole. Comes with a shrieking portrait and a barmy house elf.”

Malfoy laughed. “Thank you, Potter. I mean that,” he said. “But… now that you’ve given it to me, won’t they try to take it away?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve left my name on everything, too. Just to make sure they won’t. But I won’t touch it; it’s all yours, as far as I’m concerned.” He looked across the street and scuffed the toe of his trainer along the pavement. “Even if this… whatever we’re doing with each other, if this doesn’t work out, it’s still yours. Even if we go back to hating each other, I won’t take it from you.”

There. He’d said it. Malfoy was free to leave him if he wanted. He had more than enough money now to support himself, to buy his way back into Wizarding high society, if that’s what he wanted. He had a house and a fortune and no need for Harry. And that was exactly the point. He’d set Malfoy free; he could only hope that Malfoy came back to him.

Malfoy slipped his hand into Harry’s. “Potter,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I… Thank you.”

They went back to Malfoy’s tiny flat and his enormous bed, and long after Malfoy dropped into a deep and untroubled sleep, Harry held him close and tried not to worry that this might be the end.

 

****

 

“I’m not going to work today,” Malfoy announced as they left his building the following morning, then laughed. “I’m not going to work ever again! I’m not going to wear those stupid gloves or put on a stupid apron, and these hands,” He paused and wiggled his fingers at Harry’s face. “shall never wash another dish, so long as I live.”

“So what’re you going to do today?”

“Get a wand,” Malfoy said. “I don’t suppose Ollivander Jr.’s changed his opinion of me, but now that I’ve got money again I’ll just arrange travel to Ireland. There’s a wandmaker in Dublin I’ve heard good things about. And then I’ll need to get all of my affairs in order, of course.”

He continued to talk, and Harry could feel him slipping further away with every word. He’d gotten used to being Malfoy’s whole world for months now, and to hear Malfoy talking about a life outside him stung more than he cared to admit. _You’re being ridiculous_ , he told himself. _This is what you wanted. This is what we both need._

“Is that alright?” he asked.

Harry blinked. “Hm, sorry?”

“I said, I’ll let you know when everything’s in order. Is that alright?”

“Oh, yeah. Great. That’s fine,” Harry said, and tried to smile.

“Great,” Malfoy said. He kissed Harry quickly, then turned and strode off down the sidewalk.

Harry watched him go.

 

****

 

Even with Malfoy gone, Harry found it hard to break his routines. He still walked in the park on Wednesdays and ate ice cream on Saturdays and had dinner out on Mondays.

And on Tuesdays, he went to the cinema. He sat in his usual seat and tried to ignore the empty chair beside him.

On his second Tuesday alone, Harry finally broke down and sent Malfoy an owl. He got one back several hours later. _I’m still getting things put together_ , Malfoy had written. _I’ll let you know when I’m done_. He’d scribbled it onto the back of a used scrap of parchment, and Harry flipped it over to read part of an apothecary shopping list: bat spleen, nightshade, fluxweed, and vinegar.

He didn’t bother to write again.

On the third Tuesday after Harry had given him the keys, Malfoy came in late and slid into the seat next to Harry. “Sorry I’m late,” he whispered. “What’ve I missed?”

Harry hadn’t really been paying attention to the movie, and the only thing he’d missed was Malfoy. He took Malfoy’s hand in his and squeezed it tight, and Malfoy sighed and leaned his shoulder against Harry’s.

“Shall we go?” he asked, and stood and tugged Harry to his feet without waiting for an answer.

Harry followed him, and his relief at Malfoy being back tipped more and more into irritation with every step. Outside, Harry came to a stop, and Malfoy turned to look at him.

“What?”

“What do you think?” Harry snapped. “You disappear without so much as a bloody postcard for three weeks--”

Malfoy heaved a put-upon sigh. “That’s not true. I wrote you.”

The shopping list note absolutely didn’t count, in Harry’s opinion. “Only because I wrote you first, and you only wrote back to tell me to leave you alone.”

Malfoy sighed and his gaze slid wistfully down the street, like he wished he could follow it. “I had some things I needed to think about.”

Harry’s mouth went dry and for a second he couldn’t breathe. “What sort of things?”

“Just things,” Malfoy said evasively. “Come on, I want to show you the house.” He took half a step down the sidewalk and gave Harry’s hand a tug. “Please?”

It was probably Harry’s shock at Malfoy using the word ‘please’ that had him following along after him without protest. Harry hadn’t even been aware that word was in Malfoy’s vocabulary.

Malfoy led him along the same route he took to get to the grocer’s, but once they entered the alleyway, he came to a halt and wrapped his arms around Harry. A moment later, Harry found himself standing on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place. Malfoy stepped back.

“You’ve got your wand,” Harry said dumbly, because if Malfoy had Apparated them, of course he did.

Malfoy produced it from his sleeve with an exaggerated flick. “Beech and unicorn hair, ten and a half inches.” He gave it a swish and the door swung open. “After you.”

He nearly didn’t recognize it. Malfoy had stripped all the old paper off the walls and painted them light colors to offset the dark wood of the wainscoting. All the furniture looked new, and even though the sun had already set, the whole place looked brighter.

Most impressively, the dark curtain had been taken down from Mrs. Black, and though she pursed her lips and glared disapprovingly, she said nothing.

“How did you get her to…” Harry said and trailed off when he couldn’t find a polite way to finish his sentence. He really didn’t want to set her off again.

“We had ourselves a lovely little chat the first night I moved in here,” Malfoy said, and Mrs. Black huffed and turned her back on them. Malfoy shrugged. “I told her I’d burn her portrait in its frame if she didn’t knock it off.”

Mrs. Black turned just enough to aim a glare over her shoulder at Malfoy, then went back to ignoring them.

“I’m surprised it worked,” Harry said. “Sirius tried absolutely everything to get her to quit.”

Malfoy shrugged again. “I may have burned a landscape or two to get my point across.”

Harry laughed. “I wish I could have seen that,” he said, and let his gaze wander over the rest of the house. “You’ve really been working hard on this place.”

“Nonstop,” Malfoy replied and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I didn’t want to have you over until I finished. And I really wanted you to come over, so…” He gestured vaguely down the hall. “Would you like to see the rest of it?”

Malfoy had been exceedingly thorough in his work. The whole house looked brighter and cleaner than it’d probably been even right after its construction. They ended the tour in the master bedroom, which Malfoy had claimed as his own. Harry recognized the furniture from his tiny flat, and it looked right at home here in this room. Just like Malfoy did, Harry realized.

He looked far better than he had since they’d been children. Malfoy’s time in the Muggle world had been good for his character, softening his sharp tendencies and tempering his fierce pride with a sense of humility he’d never have gained otherwise. But his return to the Wizarding world had been good for him as well. He looked vibrant, more alive, and stronger, somehow, as if he’d found solid ground beneath his feet and could finally stand up straight.

“It looks great,” Harry said with his eyes on Malfoy. “All of it’s really, really great.”

Rather than preening under the compliment, as Harry assumed he would, Malfoy just looked at Harry, his fingers plucking at the cuff of his shirt. He seemed inexplicably nervous. Harry had relaxed during his tour of Grimmauld Place, but now a small pang of fear thrummed through his belly.

“I’m glad you think so,” Malfoy said. “Because I was rather hoping you might consider living here with me.” Harry just stared at him, and Malfoy rushed on. “I mean, your name’s still on it, it seems only fair that you live here too.”

Harry’s mind strained to absorb what Malfoy had just said. Here he’d been dreading a break-up, and instead...

“Malfoy,” Harry said. “You’re seriously asking me to move in with you?”

Malfoy pursed his lips like he did when he thought Harry was being particularly dense. “I just said that, didn’t I?”

“Don’t you think we’re rushing things? We’ve only been…” Harry trailed off because they’d never bothered to define what they were. “I mean, it’s only been a couple of months. We still call each other by our surnames, for heaven’s sake.”

“We fucked on the first date, Potter,” Malfoy said. “ _That_ was rushing things. _This_ …” He waved a hand between them. “This is fine. And I’m never going to stop calling you by your surname. Really, can you imagine me calling you Harry?”

Okay, that did sound weird coming from Malfoy. And Harry couldn’t quite imagine calling him Draco either. “You’re not doing this because I gave it to you? Because I told you, you don’t owe me anything for any of it…”

“I’m doing this because the shit part of my life taught me one valuable lesson. When something good comes along, you grab onto it and you don’t let go,” Malfoy told him. “Potter, I want you to live here because I want you with me. It’s that simple.”

When Malfoy put it like that, it certainly seemed simple. But Harry knew better. They’d only just begun to really know each other. If he moved in, there’d be countless arguments over daily minutiae: who left the cap off the toothpaste, whose turn it was to take out the rubbish, who drank the last of the milk without buying more. And there’d be bigger, more serious fights, about the war and the things they’d done to each other, and Malfoy having to accept Harry’s friends, and Harry having to accept that Malfoy could still be kind of an ass and that wasn’t likely to ever change. 

But there’d also be smiles and laughter and kisses, and someone to cook dinner for every night (except on Mondays), and there’d be falling asleep beside Malfoy and waking up with him every morning. Harry would never come home to a dark and empty flat again, but more importantly than that, he’d come home to Malfoy, and suddenly Ginny’s words made perfect sense to him.

He wanted to live with Malfoy because he wanted to be with him, and it really was that simple.

Malfoy was watching him expectantly, clearly waiting for a response.

“It won’t be easy,” Harry warned.

The uncertainty disappeared in an instant and Malfoy smirked at him. “You didn’t think anything to do with me would be, did you?”

And Harry just laughed and swept Malfoy up in a hug. “Not even for a second.”


End file.
